


Sweet William

by vipjuly



Series: Débridé [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Count Lecter - Freeform, Creature Fic, Creature Hannibal Lecter, Genderfluid Will Graham, Grossly offended old white men, M/M, Matthew Brown sucks ass in all universes, Will in Victorian Fashion, cannibal jokes, creature Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28897596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Count Lecter and Sweet William host many elegant gatherings at Lecter estate. The rules are simple:1:Do not touch Sweet William.2:Do not engage Sweet William in flights of fancy.3:Do not, under any circumstances, hold eye contact with Sweet William.They predict at least one person in the crowd to break these rules. In fact, they rely on it.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Débridé [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130201
Comments: 16
Kudos: 190





	Sweet William

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dontbelasagnax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontbelasagnax/gifts).



> happy birthday gabi. may we continue writing garbage to each other at all hours of the day and night!  
> all typos and errors are my own.

The Lecter estate was the cream of the crop for any and all local art events. From luncheons to formal dinner parties, to auctions and fashion runways, if there was art to be had, it was to be had at the Count’s. One could look forward to rubbing elbows with the names that print in the journals and magazines, and one could most certainly enjoy the host, Hannibal Lecter, being the most gracious ever encountered. 

He, himself, was art: in his designer three-piece suits, handmade suits, perfectly coiffed silvering hair, bone structure that ancient Greek gods could envy. He carried himself like a masterpiece, spoke like a symphony, and emitted such radiance it was hard to not be entranced.

The most peculiar--and sought after--accessory of his, however, was… Sweet William.

Sweet William was a pretty thing, half Count Lecter's age and a considerably exotic beauty, given his Cajun heritage. Wild, dark curly hair, sharp, intelligent eyes, plush, bow lips… He dressed as Count Lecter willed him, which was a rather impressive range; masculine suits to reflect his own, effeminate suits to complement, Victorian gowns with crinolines underneath and a corset cutting his already trim waist into delicacy. His face went from cherubic and bare to made up in renaissance beauty with pinched cheeks and long lashes. 

The common thread among his beauty, however, was the way Count Lecter's eyes always wandered back to him, Sweet William opening up like a blossom to the sun.

Sweet William usually clung to the Count, not in any sort of aggrieved manner, but in a way that led to no misconceptions about their relationship. One might assume that a young, vivacious thing such as Sweet William could only be into a man of Count Lecter's distinction in order to climb the social ladder, or perhaps even to pay off a debt. Any such thoughts could be wiped from an observer's mind, however, when their gazes caught, or their fingers brushed, and their devotion filled the room like an ambrosian cloud. 

Though Sweet William was always within range of any of the guests, there were rules one had to follow upon entering the Lecter estate, rules that had been written on handmade parchment and scrawled in fine hand with a feather quill and ink. They were simple rules, but they were governed with an iron fist.

 ** _1:_** Do not touch Sweet William.  
**_2:_** Do not engage Sweet William in flights of fancy.  
**_3:_** Do not, under any circumstances, hold eye contact with Sweet William.

The rules, although poignant, tended to raise eyebrows. Those who knew Hannibal Lecter and his curious ways obeyed them to the letter. Those obstinate, unfortunate people who held themselves in higher regard than those around them, tended to fail, and subsequently be ejected from all future Lecter events. As everyone who was anyone knew how important and powerful these gatherings were, most everyone paid attention and obeyed the rules.

Most everyone.

Tonight a charity auction was to be held publicly. Art from Hannibal’s esteemed family’s collection, passed through the generations, was to be unveiled and bid on. Some of the rarest artifacts in the world were gathered by the Lecters throughout the centuries, and though believed to be myths by some, no one could resist even the possibility of glimpsing the normally unfathomable. Men and women of all ages were brought up the long drive to the manse in their carriages, the stately renaissance fountain in the center of the loop flowing beautifully.

Sweet William was wearing a lovely Victorian gown, blood red silks flowing over his skin in morbid paisley patterns. He wore no hoop under his skirt, but the corset was cinched tight- so tight that whenever Count Lecter passed his tan hand over his waist, it was almost as if Sweet William’s body disappeared into a void. The neckline was plunging, the point of which nearly reached Sweet William’s navel, exposing his milky pale skin and the jut of his collarbones. A simple black, velvet choker slimmed his neck, and he wore a blood-red silk rose in his hair. He was barefoot, as always, jewelry adorning his ankles and toes. His lashes had inserts to make them fluffy and long, cheeks pinched with rouge, and his lips were glazed with gloss, tiny shimmers catching the light.

In contrast, Count Lecter's Victorian suit was black as night, a shade so deep and rich it looked as though his hands and head were emerging from a void.

A singular man, tonight, couldn’t keep his eyes off of Sweet William. From a distance Matthew Brown could not make eye contact with the beautiful boy, but he could admire him freely.

Of course, Sweet William felt those greasy eyes leaving putrid imprints on him from head to toe. He said nothing, however, continuing to smile pleasantly to guests and engage in small talk, his conversational partners politely skirting their eyes around his face and not making eye contact. It was to his relief that that rule had been added to the list. Eye contact was troublesome and tiresome, and he’d rather expend his energy ensuring that Count Lecter and his guests have the grandest of times.

The charity auction was called to begin. Esteemed guests filtered their way through the mansion to the back lawn, which had been outfitted with romantic white benches and chairs, blue and white draperies and flower arrangements adorning the outskirts. At the far end of the lawn was a marble gazebo in the likeness of a miniature Pantheon, and it was there that the auctioneer stood, plump and cheery, waving to guests and shaking the hands of those who approached. Once everyone was seated, he stood at the podium and called them to attention. Another handful of men walked up and down the rows handing out numbered cards, patrons taking them with a smile, eager for the auction to begin.

Near the back Count Lecter stood, Sweet William by his side, observing the proceedings with honor and pride. Sweet William knew his master had been preparing this specific auction for weeks, ensuring that all of the artifacts traveled safely to his home without impediment, and that they were restored with careful hands. Now he was to witness the fruit of that labor. The money for the auction would go back into the artistic community, with a cut going to the Lecter estate, of course. 

The auction was polite and mild. There were no scuffles, arguments, or backtalk. Those who won items celebrated quietly to themselves and their loved one, and those who lost out were determined to get the next. Sweet William enjoyed watching people at Count Lecter’s parties, no matter what the subject. Humans were fascinating, and the opportunity to study them without barriers was most satisfactory and amusing. 

After an hour the auction closed, all of the items sold for an unimaginable amount of zeroes. The winners took their tickets to the men who were to haul the artifacts to wherever they were to end up, and the others moved back toward the estate to partake in the after-auction hors d'oeuvres, which had been set out during the auction. Count Lecter greeted people as they passed, continued to shake hands and smile, a thousand miles away. They could touch him, see him, but they could never truly understand his greatness, nor his benevolence. 

During the after-hours hors d’oeuvres, specific men party to certain financial brackets broke off towards Hannibal’s study to participate in a much more private auction, where things more valuable than money were exchanged for goods. When Count Lecter had said his goodbyes he led Sweet William to the study, shutting the double doors behind them and effectively shutting out the voices bouncing along the marbled walls. A fire burned in the hearth, brilliant and warm, four men seated in plush chairs, looking dignified and rich beyond comprehension.

Among them was Matthew Brown.

Sweet William knew he did not belong there.

Count Lecter took Sweet William’s hand and led him over towards a large, cush wing chair. Count Lecter sat, positioned his knees and thighs just-so, and then guided Sweet William to perch on his lap. They looked like gothic royalty, shadows flickering over them, the blood-red of Sweet William’s gown and the rose in his hair catching the blackness and throwing it back in severe shapes, sharp and barbed. 

“Gentlemen,” Hannibal greeted, his mellifluous voice not loud, but well heard. “Shall we begin?” 

Sweet William tuned out the talk, instead letting his eyes purposefully hone in on Matthew Brown, who stared back. In his eyes was evil and greed, but not like the men he was seated with; his was twisted and deep, born of a dark mind, not driven by money or advancement, but by what sick pleasures he could derive for himself. He was brave to look Sweet William in the eye, right in front of the Count, no less.

But he did not waver, and so Sweet William did not, either. 

Perched prettily on Count Lecter’s lap, Sweet William knew the proceedings. Exchanges of land, of heritance and fortune, of art so mysterious and rare it could not even be shown to confirm its authenticity. Count Lecter enjoyed these tete-a-tetes, the verbal back and forth with men who were so clearly less intelligent than he. Why he amused himself with these imbeciles was beyond Sweet William. 

Matthew Brown did not look away.

Sweet William dipped his chin minutely, lashes fluttering. The hunger in Matthew Brown’s eyes was different from the hunger he had seen in the average man; perverted men who wished to flip his skirt or palm his chest or push him to his knees. Matthew Brown looked ravenous. Covetous. Obsessed. 

Curious, indeed.

Count Lecter’s hand on Sweet William’s slender waist was heavy and comforting. The point of contact was grounding. It kept Sweet William on his lap, preventing him from leaping across the room and pinning Matthew Brown to the ground to slice his throat and spit venom into his eyes. Count Lecter either did not notice or care to see Matthew Brown’s attention. In any case, Sweet William was perfectly capable of handling himself. 

Suddenly, Matthew Brown spoke, interrupting the conversation. “When will Sweet William be priced?”

The other men gasped collectively, looking at Matthew Brown in shock. 

Sweet William didn’t react.

Count Lecter finally let his gaze drift to the young man, looking nonplussed. “Sweet William shall remain by my side.”

“Surely there is a price you seek,” Matthew Brown said. His gaze finally left Sweet William’s, those gruesome eyes focused on Count Lecter.

“Tell me, Mr. Brown,” Count Lecter said, now directing his full attention to him. “What price would you think is suitable?” 

“The ultimate price,” Matthew Brown said, madness gleaming in his eyes. 

“I say, boy,” one of the men said, adjusting his monocle. “You are speaking outrageously out of line. The rules of Lecter estate have been dictated clearly. If you cannot abide then you should dismiss yourself before you are dismissed.” 

“The rules are made under the impression that Sweet William will be Count Lecter’s ward for all of time,” Matthew Brown said, his voice dripping grease. 

“The ultimate price,” Count Lecter said, “would be your life, Mr. Brown. Is that the price you would pay?” 

“Yes,” he breathed out the word like a prayer, scooting to the edge of his seat. 

Count Lecter considered this. Then, he gently squeezed Sweet William’s waist. “Your thoughts, Sweet William?” 

“You are vile,” Sweet William said gracefully, though the edges of his words were laced with contempt. “You piteous, wretched, impotent, filthy leper. I would rather die choking on raw sewage than to be by your side.” 

Matthew Brown whimpered, sliding down to the floor with a tremble. He looked to be in the throes, affected perversely by Sweet William’s insults, shivering and glassy-eyed. “Sweet William, your blackness penetrates me. I see you- I _see_ you.” 

Standing from Count Lecter’s lap, Sweet William looked down his nose at the crumpled young man. “Leave, Matthew Brown. Leave now in one piece, or leave in a matchbox before the night is through.”

"You speak of death as though I do not seek it, Sweet William," Matthew Brown said, his voice taking on a saccharine quality. It sent ugly pinpricks down Sweet William's spine. He then came prostrate to his knees, shuffling forward, hands clasped in prayer at his chest. "Deliver me."

Sweet William sneered. "You are not worth my breath."

The other men looked on, aghast in the firelight. Count Lecter stayed coolly in his chair, a king in his throne, watching the proceedings with thinly veiled interest. 

"If you do not wish to purchase me to sully me," said Sweet William, "then why do you display such ugly begging?"

"I've been watching you," Matthew Brown said in a tone filled with lust. His gaze skittered to Count Lecter, then darted back to his ward. 

"I know," Sweet William said.

"We are the same."

Sweet William's eyes narrowed. "We are anything but."

"I _see_ you," Matthew Brown continued. "I see the woes of boredom in your gaze. This is not the life for you, on a _leash_ ," he spat, "collared up to be paraded. What joy do you have? What stimulation does your mind _crave_? A god like you?”

Stepping forward, his bare feet making nary a sound on the Persian rug, Sweet William crouched to bring himself to the other man's level. Holding his gaze, Sweet William murmured, "I am worshiped. On my altar lay sacrifices, puny men like you, their blood running through my veins after I have consumed every sin they have committed. I am not the one on a leash, Matthew Brown."

Fear flickered through the young man's eyes, though he stayed resolute. "Then am I not to be sacrificed?" He suddenly threw himself at Sweet William, crying out, "O wretched state! O bosom black as death!" 

With hands and arms strong as an ox Sweet William wrestled Matthew Brown to the ground among the chorus of the gasps from the small audience. He stood, bare foot planted on Matthew Brown's sternum, the fabric of his dress gripped in his silk-gloved hands to pull the hem up a few inches so as not to stain the beauty with this foul man's plagued skin.

The room was silent save for Matthew's blubbering. Count Lecter stood from his chair, sming cordially at the other men. "Gentlemen, I am afraid we must convene. Allow me to escort you out."

The men hurried. They would not speak of this moment to anyone outside of these walls, not even to one other, ever again. Alone in the room with Matthew Brown, Sweet William smirked. His dimples dented his clean-shaven cheeks, his blue eyes glimmering orange in the firelight. Great, spindly antlers grew in the shadows of his back, crawling along the walls and ceiling of the room. Matthew took in the sight with horrified awe.

"You will die, Matthew Brown," Sweet William declared. Ornate flowers fell from the shadow antlers and tumbled across Sweet William's shoulders and décolleté, white tipped petals with a center of blood, the flower of his namesake. He then bent, the flowers tumbling down onto Matthew Brown, their fragrance intoxicating as he said, "but not by my hand."

Eyes widening, Matthew screamed in anguish and terror. He thrashed under Sweet William's bare foot, which was stronger and heavier than lead, grabbing his ankle with scrambling fingers, the bracelet snapping and sending diamonds skittering across the floor. He begged for Sweet William to take his life, to end it with his hands, to send him Beyond on the cursed river.

The door to the study opened. Sweet William looked over at where Count Lecter shut the doors behind him, his eyes glowing red in the darkness. The horns grown from his head vanished when he entered the light of the fire, the smile on his mouth nearly pleasant as he regarded Matthew Brown.

"We would love to have you for dinner," Hannibal said genially. 

Sweet William's smile grew wider, blood dripping from his fangs to land in neat spatters on Matthew Brown's tear stricken face. The scream in Matthew Brown's throat started out small, feeble, then grew steadily in pitch. As it crescendoed Sweet William withdrew his foot, swishing his blood-red dress in a whisper of fabric over the prone man's head, and when he took a step to the side, Matthew Brown was no more. 

Stepping up to Sweet William's side, Count Lecter drew him in by the slender slope of his waist, leaning in to press the sweetest, most affectionate kiss on his forehead. 

"Praise be to you, Sweet William."

Fluttering his lashes, feigning coy as he peered up at his lover, he accepted the kiss bestowed to his lips, blood the deepest crimson smearing between their mouths. "I continue to be forever yours."

The fountain in the porte cochère ran red.


End file.
